


Remember Remember

by TriffidsandCuckoos



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Jim being Jim, OC death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-10
Updated: 2012-07-10
Packaged: 2017-11-09 14:09:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/456348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TriffidsandCuckoos/pseuds/TriffidsandCuckoos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the prompt: <i>Moriarty; he has his own way of celebrating Guy Fawkes' Day.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Remember Remember

“Remember remember, the fifth of November,” Jim murmurs to himself, cupping his hand around his cigarette to protect the flame (as gloriously atmospheric as these nights could be, the wind could be a real bugger too) and making sure the glow lit up his face, for the look of the thing. Nights like tonight deserved the demonic look, even if Hallowe’en had already been and gone (and what a night that had been). “The gunpowder, treason and plot.” 

It had been his favourite rhyme growing up. Oh, ring a ring o’ roses was fine – nothing like a lovely epidemic to give playground games a thrill – and of course he delighted in the wonderful rhythm of _here comes the chopper to chop off your head_ , but the tale of the fifth of November had an extra something. Maybe it was the gunpowder; maybe it was the treason; maybe it was the plot. 

“I see no reason, why gunpowder and treason,” he continued, shaking the match out idly as he let his attention drift to the display before him, “should ever be forgot.” Truer words were never spoken. Naturally people tended to put the emphasis in the wrong place, condemning rather than appreciating a man who had wanted to put on a show England would never forget (although a celebration was a celebration, however you dressed it up), but an excuse to burn a man in effigy should never be passed up, nonetheless.

 _Burning the Guy_ , his mother had called it. It had been a while – around the same time he’d learnt that what was now mere immolation had in reality been of hanging, drawing and quartering (that had been last year) – before he’d realised she had always meant one guy in particular.

Still, in this country, tradition meant something. And Jim knew what his country required of him, on this second best of holidays.

“So tell me,” he asks tonight’s centrepiece, “do _you_ remember why we’re here?”

Typically his Guy – he’d been overjoyed to learn there really were still people called Guy, a sign if ever he saw one – simply contorted his face and came forth with the usual begs and pleas. Normally Jim would have let himself be amused by such antics, or rolled his eyes and stifled an unusually honest yawn, but tonight he had a sense of occasion about him. “Now now, don’t embarrass yourself. You’re part of history tonight.”

And he flicked his cigarette into the pyre.

Straw did burn very prettily. Jim had known this for a very long time indeed. Denim wasn’t nearly as fun, which was why he’d so kindly stuffed Guy’s clothes full of something more flammable so that he wouldn’t feel he’d disappointed.

And as for when the fire reached the fireworks…

Jim let himself grin and conduct Tchaikovsky as the explosions rang out, the sky full of blue and purple and fire and debris as he put on a show for the whole of London to see.

A fifth of November to remember, indeed.


End file.
